


The Bloodwork Murder Case

by IAmWhelmed



Series: Origami Birds [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Son of Batman (2014), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Batfam misses their baby bat, Blood, But Bentley is ALSO a Little Shit, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne is Christian Tathum, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Damian Wayne-centric, Detective Conan AU, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Jon misses his partner, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed
Summary: Damian, having only had his memories back a few weeks, has done everything in his power to keep his identity under wraps. He's been doing a good job of it, until some woman named Fadia Alfarsi calls and offers to get his bloodwork done. Things get worse when High School Detective Bentley Stück shows up at the Tathum Agency's front door and offers to help Chris Tathum find his original family. Damian was expecting for things to get complicated, but he wasn't anticipating a murder mystery at the Bayard House of History.Meanwhile, Bruce is growing increasingly eager to find his son, and he doesn't have the answers Jon is looking for.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne & Original Character(s), Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Series: Origami Birds [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786054
Comments: 23
Kudos: 102





	1. Part I

Getting his memories back had resulted in a lot of acrobatics through metaphorical hoops to keep his identity hidden. Refusing to share his name with newspaper reporters, hiding his face in public, knocking poor Abner unconscious with some sleep darts for which Johanna still was uncertain of the use despite creating the tactile watch herself. It would only take one snooping reporter to recognize his face, and it was game over. He’d get sent back where he wasn’t wanted, where he didn’t even want to be. That’s why, when a museum curator by the name of Fadia Alfarsi rang up Liv, he’d pitched a fit.

“I heard about little Chris’s case, Miss Tathum, and my poor little heart was so warm when I heard how you’ve taken this little one in! Listen, I have a team of well-trained lobotomists on-call, and I want to get his bloodwork done. Maybe something in his DNA can help us find a match?”

He’d whined and thrown his limbs around and cried and begged, and even pretended that he had a great, debilitating fear of needles, but Liv hadn’t heard a word of it. She was stronger than she looked, being a karate student and all, and if he reacted with any more force, she would have known something was up. So he’d given up and let her drag him by the scruff to his doctor’s appointment, and he’d just hoped that, by some miracle, the blood would become contaminated somehow, or at the very least, wouldn’t give away anything particularly incriminating. It’d been a week since then, and lo and behold, they’d received another call from Miss Alfarsi. His bloodwork was done, and she wanted to bear the news herself.

He sneezed as Liv brushed the hair out of his eyes. “You look so much cuter with your hair brushed back. Like a little gentleman!”

He pouted. “I’m not cute.”

“Right, right. My 4’5 grade school brother isn’t cute!”

“Liv!”

Abner came around the corner, stretching an arm up and into the sleeve of his suit’s jacket. “Awfully nice of Miss Alfarsi to get this bloodwork done for us. Woulda been a fortune if I had our forensics team take a stab at it. I don’t need Chief Magurie riding my ass any more than he already does.”

Liv straightened up and smoothed out her skirt, playful smile tilting at her pink glossed lips. “A tour of the Bayard House of History, too! Do you know how expensive a ticket for the full tour is?” She smoothed out her hair and turned to the bathroom mirror Chris was just hardly tall enough to see into without a stool. “That one year my class took a trip to the museum, I couldn’t go, remember?”

“Ah, yeah, yeah, I remember that. You cried for hours.”

There were a solid three knocks at the door, and Chris squeezed by the space between Abner’s leg and the bathroom door’s threshold to get a glance at the shadow on the other side of the Agency door. 5’10, shoulders well-built but not quite broad, muscled. His stomach sank. There was a man who fit that description aptly in his previous life, and he’d seen this man pull off far greater stunts than snatching some blood samples from a pretentious museum in the past. Batman himself could have gotten the bloodwork done much faster, though, couldn’t he? And what exactly would have led his father or his _chosen_ wards to steal the bloodwork of a kid that had hardly made an impact in his city, let alone outside of it? No, he needed to calm down. There was a chance it wasn’t Nightwing at the door. He swallowed. “Huh, a client? Right now?”

Liv hummed low, like a warning tone. “Dad~ come on, we’re going to be late if you interview another client right now. Give them your card and have them call you later!”

“And have them find another private eye? Think, girl!”

Abner made his way to the front door, calling to their unexpected guest. Chris wasn’t sure if he should make the move to hide in the safety of the bathroom, or to stick his neck out further to see that door pull back. No, he wasn’t scared of anything. He’d handle this, somehow. He had to.

“Ah, Mister Tathum, right?”

“Yeah, who’s asking?”

This boy-- yes, boy-- stuck his neck over Abner’s shoulder, glancing around the otherwise empty room until his big green eyes landed on one thing. Chris. That certainly wasn’t Grayson, but the way his eyes lit up and the smile on his face gave him a queasy feeling that wouldn’t soon settle. Not the kind that told him that there was danger, but the kind that told him there was incoming irritation, the way one would feel as the light hits their eyes mid-headache. “Ah, he’s so cute! This is him, right? Chris? The one you guys adopted from the police station?” He bullied his way by Abner’s attempt at swallowing him at the entrance, far too strong for a man as unfit as Abner to cut off. Chris found himself automatically taking three steps back as this stranger approached on oddly quick and nimble feet, like he was walking on air with his long, long legs.

“O-Oi! You can’t just barge in here and--!”

Liv peeked out of the bathroom as her father began a tangent, blinking as this stranger ascended upon their hiding place. Chris swallowed and ran to hide behind her legs, hoping he’d forget he existed there. The last thing he wanted was the sore feeling that came with pinched cheeks and ruffled hair, and he had a feeling this man was more than willing to impart that kind of pain. “Oh, yes, this is him. Sorry, he’s a little shy around new faces.” She reached back and gave Chris a head pat, which he tried desperately to pretend didn’t relieve his growing agitation. “My name is Liv, I’m Detective Tathum’s daughter. And who might you be?”

“Ah, whoops! Yeah, guess I shoulda introduced myself.” He readjusted the baseball cap on his head, tipped it down so a shadow fell over his pickle eyes and casted them deep with something Chris recognized, something that made his stomach flip. A detective’s speculation. “My name is Bentley Stück. Son of Detective Stück of the Caedmon Police Department.”

“Detective Stück? Oh my god, Little Ben! Last time I saw you, you were as tall as my calf!”

“You remember me, then!”

“Of course I do!” Abner’s face, so aflame with indignant and ire moments before, had faltered into something soft and filled with a fond nostalgia. “Your father was one hell of a detective when I knew him!”

“Hah, hah! He’s said the same about you, Sir!”

“Aw, don’t bother with Sir. I’m Abner. It’s nice to see ya again, kid! What brings you to our neck o’ the woods?”

Bentley’s eyes trailed back down to Chris, who had taken to burrowing his fists into his sister’s skirt and threatening Stück with his eyes. “I’m here for the kid, actually. I heard ya haven’t found his Pop’s yet. I was thinkin’ I could help!”

“Oh, really?” No, no, Liv getting excited was the last thing he wanted. “Well, we could always use more eyes and ears! We’re actually on our way to take a look at his blood test results!”

“A blood test, huh? That could be pretty useful, neh, kid?” He bent over so he was on eye level with Chris, who was struggling with every fibre of his being to not maul the everloving hell out of the cocky ingrate talking down at him like he was a kid. He was not a kid. He was a tool, a weapon of unparalleled destruction, a bloodied sinner looking to write himself a new story. “What white teeth you have! Your big sister has been making you brush regularly, I bet!”

“Christian! Don’t bare your teeth at people like that, it’s rude!”

“Nah, he’s a real cutie!”

He’d shown him cute, once he got the bastard alone.

* * *

The ride to the Bayard House of History was a short and uncomfortable one. Abner drove while Liv took the passenger seat, leaving him alone with the wide-grinned stranger who kept asking him questions, questions he didn’t feel like answering. He’d buried himself in the corner and typed away at the portable game console Liv had surprised him with a few weeks prior. He didn’t see a lot of use for it, but it was as good an excuse as any to avoid contact with nosy cretins with cavalier attitudes. Unfortunately, the mere existence of the damn thing drew more questions than it influenced a shutting of lips. Bentley’s eyes lit up at the red handheld, positively sparkling as he noticed the round logo on the back. “Ah! A Play Place Portable! You’re a lucky little brat, ya know that?”

Liv turned around and laughed. “You almost seem more eager than he was when he got it!”

“Ah, yeah, I dun’ listen to her, but I’ve got a friend back home that says I’m more boy than man!”

“How funny! Everyone is always telling me how mature Chris is for his age!”

“Hear that, kid? Two peas in a pod, you and I are!” He grinned, and there was something evil and taunting in his eye, and Chris responded only with a smirk that was more scowl than smile. “You’re awfully kind to a kid ya just met, Miss Tathum.”

“Oh, just call me Liv! And we’ve actually had Chris for about six months, now.”

Recognition flashed in Bentley’s eyes, and something akin to dread flooded his chest. Of course he wasn’t looking to be friendly, any detective knew that even the smallest of conversations could drop a clue, and that’s exactly what Bentley was-- a detective. “Six months?”

“Yeah! You know, I like to think that even if Chris gets his memories back, he’ll always feel like a part of our family.”

“How do you know he hasn’t, yet?”

Shit. Shit! Liv blinked and turned around in her seat, a frown tugging at her pursed lips. “What do you mean?”

“L-Liv--!” He tried to speak up, but Bentley’s arm was around his shoulder in a second, and he found himself tugged into the type of hug only older brothers used to torment their siblings. He’d seen Todd do it to Drake on more than one occasion, and even Kon do it to Jon once or twice. It left his mouth covered by the width of Bentley’s forearm. He threw his limbs everywhere and struggled and tried to pull himself out of the iron-clad grip that locked him against Bentley’s side, but the struggle was fruitless.

Bentley gave Liv a sunny smile. “I’m just saying, maybe the kid’s just happier here with you?”

Something soft lit Liv’s olive face, and she peered down at Chris’s splayed, struggling form with an affectionate smile. “I doubt it, but I guess it’s a nice thought.”

* * *

The museum was huge, and to a man who hadn’t been all over the world like Chris had, he imagined the museum may almost appear intimidating. He could imagine even Jon oo’ing and ah’ing in excitement, and he almost felt him tugging at his arm, like a memory he hadn’t the time to ponder. “Damian, come on! Let’s go!” He could practically see his best friend’s smile, see big blue eyes peering back at him, tanned farm boy skin stretching as he laughed and tugged Damian along. Instead he reached up and held Liv’s hand, and she smiled down at him and gave it a squeeze.

“Welcome, welcome everyone!” Fadia Alfarsi, a woman in her late 50s, greeted them at the front steps with her arms outstretched. Her blue suit set was uncomfortably tight on her, or maybe it was just uncomfortable to look at. She hadn’t had it tailored, or at least hadn’t had it tailored in a long time. Her jacket was too small on her, and stressed the fabric at her shoulder to the point of almost tearing it at the seams. The ends of it met only halfway over her torso, and sat like a crop top, where he could see the inside of her jacket with no issue at his height. Her black hair was streaked with grey, a stark contrast to the bright red lipstick she wore. She met them halfway to the front doors, eyes settling on Chris almost instantly. “Is this the little one?” Little one? Why was everybody bending over and talking to him like a toddler today?

“Yes, this is Christian! I’m Liv, I’m the one you spoke to on the phone. This is my father, Detective Abner, and this is a family friend--!”

“High School Detective Bentley Stück, m’am.”

Alfarsi’s face glimmered at the word. “My! Two detectives at once! What a lucky day!” What was that supposed to mean? Chris frowned, and a quick glance at Bentley told him that he’d caught it, too. “Now, I have the results locked away in my office. I’m afraid I have some concerns I must attend to, but I will be leaving you in the competent, trustworthy hands of my assistant, Isabel.”

“Other concerns? Anything I can help with?”

“Oh no, Mister Tathum, not to worry. It’s a mere legal dispute. We’ve had plenty.”

She led them through the front doors, and passed an archway into the first exhibits. A younger woman stood stiff and waiting, hands folded neatly in front of her, a small smile on her face as she waved in greeting. Alfarsi gestured with one hand. “This is Isabel.”

“Hello, everyone. Good morning! I’ll be taking care of you during your visit.”

* * *

And so the tour followed. Collections of ancient artifacts that would make even the oldest of cities weep with culture. Pieced-together remains of sunken ships, skeletons of Great Generals, even recreations more unnerving than that of typical taxidermy, set and standing on display like living, breathing creatures. Dinosaurs, pirates, royalty, it was all in one place, each with a perfectly-crafted description, bordered in stainless steel.

The tour lasted what felt like three hours, but he conceded was probably more or less forty minutes. He’d been to all of these places, seen feats greater than anything the museum could possibly hold. The only thing he’d found at all interesting had been the exhibit of Mongolian weaponry, during which he’d been excitedly bouncing from display to display, reading each description faster than Isabel could rattle them off. Bentley hadn’t asked any stealthy, probing questions since they’d started, and thus had been less of an annoyance and more of a mild irritant, with the way he kept smiling down at the hand he still clung tightly to Liv with. Even Abner had yet to conk him over the head for something absurd, so despite the day being boring, it had been… peaceful-- until the most interesting thing happened at the end of the tour.

“This is our Arabian exhibit, not yet open, though I’m sure Miss Alfarsi will be more than willing to wave your entry fee once the ribbons are cut!” Isabel gestured to an open arch, taped off with a yellow caution line. Beyond the open bend, unfinished stages and enclosures could be seen and conclusions about what laid beyond could be drawn. Chris supposed it would be interesting to see what their archeologists had dug up. He wondered if he’d see any weaponry, if there’d be skulls of Assassins killed ages ago by his Grandfather in his efforts to build 'Eth Alth'eban. But what caught his attention most was the echoing of voices just beyond the way, arguing, it sounded like.

“Come, Miss Alfarsi, you must know that this is grounds for a suit!”

“Not yet, it’s not! Erwin is our fat lady, and I haven’t heard him sing.”

“W-Well M-Miss Alfarsi, y-you see it’s--!”

A chorus of two voices. “Shut up, Erwin!”

Chris had never been one to hesitate, it was simply against his nature. He rushed by the arch, ignoring the pleads from his sister and the disgruntled objections of their tour guide. He rounded the corner and found Alfarsi herself standing across from a tall, burly man, hands on her hips and a sneer on her face. Between them stood a small frail man with glasses, wiping at his hands with a handkerchief. He wasn’t too old, but he was a mid-aged man with a serious case of scoliosis, it seemed. He assumed that man was Erwin. The man in tan with a suitcase at his side stood much taller than either of them. Broad shoulders formed a hulking frame, even to somebody of a more average size. He, too, was on the older side, neck-length brown hair with streaks of grey parting the space between his ears and his neck. He was a lawyer, presumably. “This family has waited for decades to find this heirloom. To tear it away for the sake of adding to a display you’re already so far from completing, it’s selfish!”

“Well, Mister Al-Mufti, Erwin hasn’t found evidence of your client’s namesake anywhere just yet, and he won’t find any!”

“Christian!” Chris startled as a hand gripped him by the back of his collar. He struggled for a moment before he turned to see maya blue eyes, glaring down at him-- Liv. “How many times are you going to just go running off like that? This exhibit isn’t ready, yet. You’re not allowed to be back here!” Behind her, he could see Isabel struggling to decide between begging him to come back and calling for her boss. Abner looked as annoyed as he always did, and Bentley had that damn inquisitive look again.

He sighed. “Yes, Liv….”

It was just like that, he was whisked away to the main office, his attempts at uncovering something more interesting, like a case, thwarted. Isabel explained to them that Mister Erwin Gallo was Miss Alfarsi’s co-owner, despite what that argument might have sounded like, and was solely responsible for 90% of the relics found in their museum. Esquire Abdul Al-Mufti was a lawyer who was representing a small family still in Arabia, a family that claimed the most recent addition to their unopened exhibit, a hand-sculpted, hand-painted vase, was a family heirloom, lost to a house fire decades back. Most of it went in one ear and out the other. He was struggling to stay awake where he stood most of the tour, anyway, the drama of some scheming curator vs a scheming family was hardly the case he thought it would be.

“We will have to speak in low voices. Miss Alfarsi should be in her office next door at this hour of the day, and she hates being interrupted.” _Then why the hell would you have a guest room right next door_? He wanted to say, but he didn’t. Because that was exactly the kind of thing that would get Abner to conk him on the head, or get him a pinch on the ear from Liv. The door to the guest area wasn’t even a door, it was another archway, completely open and welcoming, yes, but certainly not convenient. Inside was a single couch, sitting across from the window that sat to the side of the archway, like you weren’t already able to see past the open threshold. A plant sat in front of it, and was about as tall as the window’s length itself. Isabel gestured to the couch. “Please, take a seat. I’ll text Miss Alfarsi and let her know we’re here.” The four of them did as asked, and Chris took a seat between Bentley and Liv, scowling at his legs that hardly reached the floor below.

“Text her?” Bentley asked the question for him, and for that he was just the taddest grateful. “She’s right next door, why wouldn’t you just stop by?”

Isabel laughed. “That’s exactly what I said, but she got upset with me for questioning orders! So, texting it is, I suppose.” She shot her boss a text, and a few minutes later, she got a response. “File #3. All right, then.” She sauntered over to the cabinet by the archway, a tall wooden casing that stood from ceiling to floor. Its doors were roughly the size of maybe Liv herself, and it took Isabel’s whole body to tug the left door open. Inside there were files, and she took the one labeled with a 3. She returned to them and sat on the couch across, setting the file on the coffee table. When she opened it, it wasn’t what Chris had expected.

He’d done work on his own blood, before. He’d known exactly what the results would look like, a 40-50% American, Gotham area match, with 10% British, Wales, UK area, and a 40-50% Arabic match. That was… not what the file said. The file placed his roots primarily in Asia of all places, specifically 30% Indian with a 30% Japanese, and the remaining percentages left him 40% American Indian? That wasn’t at all right. No, there was no American Indian, for sure, on his mother’s or his father’s side, and though Asian wasn’t necessarily the furthest thing one may see when looking at him, it was by no means an accurate reflection of the blood that actually ran through his veins. When he stopped being insulted, he realized how good that was. There was no way that this DNA would match with any of the DNA Damian Wayne’s blood would provide, which meant the sample had been contaminated somehow, or they’d switched him with another person entirely. This was a win!

Just as he was starting to feel boastful, Isabel’s cell phone rang. She glanced down at it. “Oh, Mister Erwin messaged me.” She took a moment to read it over, and by then, her eyes had gone wide. “Oh! I’m so sorry! Apparently Miss Alfarsi gave me the wrong file.” Oh. Dammit. She took the file and returned to the cabinet, struggling once more to pull the left door open before she slipped #3 back in, and took #1 out. She returned to the table with a hushed apology, and opened the record again. This looked more like him. It was the exact same results he’d found when he’d gone examining his own DNA, with the small variation that this test marked him with .1% Scottish. It was damming, something that Batman would take as cold hard evidence if it ever reached him. The boastfulness that’d been welling in his chest before had simmered down to the equivalent of a pinched match, leaving him with only smoke in his lungs. “This is great, Christian! We’re going to find your family in no time with this!”

“Yeah… great.”

Isabel took the files and pulled them to her chest, standing and nodding to them with a parting smile. “I’ll just make some copies of this so you can take them home and--!”

There was a scream. Loud. Booming. It made the floor shake. Chris was past the threshold without a second of thought, and to his surprise, Bentley was right behind him. What they came upon, two doors down, was Abdul Al-Mufti, eyes wide with horror, body trembling as he fell on his ass, crawling away as far as he could, until his back hit the wall behind him. There was something scary in the next room, then, presumably. “Keep the kid away!”

He could hardly hear Al-Mufti screaming. Chris came to the open door and grimaced. Bentley came up behind him and gasped.

Erwin Gallo laid on the floor of his office, knife sticking out of his neck, with a finger painted in his own blood. On the floor beside him there was a single word, scrawled in arabic: قادي

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image source: https://www.alibaba.com/product-detail/diy-acrylic-oil-painting-on-canvas_60217976839.html


	2. Part II

“What do you mean you don’t have any leads?”

“I mean, there’s not a trace to follow, yet.”

Jon was a cute kid, full, thick head of black hair and big blue eyes. Looked just like his father. He was a real kid, went to school, enjoyed video games, had crushes on pretty girls (from what Clark had told him)-- an All-American boy who just so happened to have laser vision and flight, among other abilities. It was what made him such a perfect fit for Damian, the son he hadn’t known about, the little boy who’d never had a childhood of his own to live. He’d grown up too fast, didn’t know how to live for himself. Jon had been his perfect balance, the partner who leveled him out the way Clark had always done for him. He’d watched the two of them become friends, seen the way Damian’s face softened when Jon came around, the way Jon’s face lit up when he and Damian stopped by the Kent household. He even suspected there had been more, hiding in his son beneath the layers of carefully-sewn indifference, but he’d never had the chance to ask.

Now, his suspicions were inching towards certainty, and the irony was that none of that mattered anymore. It wouldn’t, not until Damian was home. The way Jon was looking at him now, nose curled in a scowl, fists clenched, he wished more in that moment that he had something to offer than he had in any other moment before. “He has to be out there! You’re supposed to be the greatest detective in the world!”

“Jon,” Clark set a hand at his son’s shoulder. Quieting, but not comforting. Jon looked all the world like he’d been betrayed, and tears welled up in those big blue eyes. It reminded Bruce of his boys, the rare times DIck or Tim or Jason had cried. Seeing the waterworks on Jon’s rounded face didn’t hurt any less, though this was empathy for Clark. “Bruce is doing his best. Nobody wants to find Damian more than he does.”

“So why hasn’t he found him yet?”

“Because Damian doesn’t want to be found.” Jon’s face raised in confusion, then fell in upset. Clark frowned, probably having come to the same conclusion, himself. “That’s the only explanation.”

“But why?” _Doesn’t he know we miss him? Doesn’t he know we’re worried? Isn’t he thinking about me?_ Jon didn’t need to ask, he could hear every question in the way his voice raised and broke. The truth was, he didn’t have any answers for him, anyway, because he didn’t know. If there was any question in Damian’s mind that he was missed, if he thought for once second that he would ever stop looking for him, those falsities would need to be mended. Damian was coming home, someday, if not for his father’s sake, but for the sake of the farm boy who stood before him with a broken heart.

* * *

“Mister Al-Mufti! Call the police!”

“A-Ah, yes.”

Erwin Gallo laid face-down on the floor of his office, no pulse, at least, he assumed, since the blood that dripped from the slice in his throat had simmered down to a small faucet, where it had clearly been a sprinkler of red. Chris had rushed in before Bentley had gotten the words out, crouching down at Gallo’s side, reading the dying message he’d so kindly left for the authorities to find: قادي

Bentley came to a crouch at his side. “Arabic. Suppose we should ask our two suspects what that means?”

“No need. It translates to Qadi. It’s a reference to a muslim judge.” There was a pause, a moment for Bentley to digest.

“Well, only one of our suspects fits that description. Abdul Al-Mufti is a legal advisor, so it would stand to reason…”

“No, we can’t be so sure of that yet.”

He glanced around before patting down Gallo’s pockets. “Whoa, whoa! I know you’re not trying to pickpocket a body that’s not even cold!”

“Don’t be daft.” Ah, there it is. He had to flip Gallo onto his back, but there was his cell phone, tucked into the inner pocket of his dress shirt. Funny thing was, despite the fact that the front of his dress shirt and suit jacket were drenched in his own blood, the phone was completely clean. A quick look at the body told him that it wasn’t the first time his body had been moved, either. The left shoulder of his suit jacket was covered in blood, like the front of his dress shirt, but his right shoulder was clear of it, which meant somebody had shifted his body to the left to get to his phone, and then shifted it back once the phone was wiped clean. Unfortunately for the culprit, the phone wouldn’t have been clean if it had been left untouched. “Erwin wasn’t the one who texted Isabel, the culprit did.”

“So they used Erwin’s phone to text Isabel, but there would have been fingerprints left in the blood on the phone, so they had to wipe it clean. The question is, why would they have to text Isabel as Erwin in the first place?” That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it? He glanced up to the vase, the vase that an educated guess told him was the one he’d heard Al-Mufti and Alfarsi arguing about. He’d seen that script style before, from the artists Pennyworth had lectured him on back when he was still homeschooled. He’d thought it imperative that he knew about Kufic, and at the moment he was more inclined to agree than he was back when the subject had originally been broached.

Studying that would give him a good guess about who did it.

He reached out and took the vase in easy hands, humming as he twisted it to read the script. It wasn’t anything particularly interesting, something he gathered was home-spun poetry. What was most interesting was the signature he found inside. _Interesting._ “Find anything?”

“Yeah. The inside of the vase says Al-Hashim.”

“Oh, and what does that translate to?”

“It’s a family name, stemming from the given name Hashim, crusher or breaker.”

“Huh…” Bentley cocked an eyebrow, then eyed him up and down. He had that damn calculating look in his eyes, like he was a case for him to solve. He said nothing, instead opting to nod at the small mob rustling outside the door. Chris turned, too, to find Abner and Liv standing at the door, eyes wide in terror as they took in the blood that was, quite frankly, everywhere. Liv screamed and hid her face in her father’s shoulder, while Abner grinded his teeth and assessed the scene. Miss Alfarsi and Mister Al-Mufti weren’t far behind.

Alfarsi’s eyes darkened as she saw her partner’s lifeless frame, tears welling as she screamed and ran forward, throwing herself onto Erwin’s body as she wept for a life that was no longer his. He watched her with his hands in his pockets, and a stern twist in his face.

* * *

“I can’t believe that poor man is really dead!”

“You should have stayed here, Liv, you shouldn’t have seen that.”

The four of them circled back to the guest office, a little less than willingly on Bentley’s and Chris’s part. Abner had taken them both by the ear, though, and pinched them along until they were acquiesce enough to walk voluntarily. Chris huffed and threw himself onto the couch, mulling over the evidence he’d already collected. All signs were pointing to one culprit, but he couldn’t figure out how the word Qadi applied. It made no sense. He was missing something, and he wasn’t sure what.

Liv scoffed and gestured to the couch, or Chris, who was lying along it. “Chris went running off! I’m sorry I wanted to keep our small helpless child safe!” Helpless he was not, and affected at all by the blood or the dead body, he was also not. A normal kid would have been, though, so he supposed he’d give her some slack, there. Guilt gnawed at him, right then. Again, the Damian in him was too quick to react, didn’t think first, and it once again had gotten somebody he cared about hurt. He could hear his father scolding him, seeping at the back of his skull like tar, and he was struggling to pull himself out of it. No, he had to focus. Focus on the case.

Abner shook his head, something weary in his face. He was a man that dealt in excitement most days, inspired by nothing more than by his love of a good mystery. He’d heard that Liv’s mother often called him _delightfully juvenile_ for a man, and Chris had oft been inclined to agree. Standing with his fingers raised, pinching between his eyes, he almost appeared his age. “You should have let me handle it. You’re a strong girl, Liv, but seeing something like that…”

“Your dad’s right, ya know.” Bentley twisted his cap around. “The first time I saw a murder scene, it haunted me for months. I wouldn’t wish that sorta torment on anyone.” What an odd thought, remembering the first time he saw a dead body. He couldn’t, really. He’d wager that he’d had more blood in his mouth than breastmilk as a babe. Most people could recall the first time they saw the light of life leave someone’s eyes, or the first time they’d kissed a loved one and felt only cold skin and stony silence. He could recall only the first time it had been him to snuff out the tapering flare, remember the brown of the man’s eyes, the way fear swallowed his face like an encompassing shadow. He remembered the sound of his steel and the impact it made as he drove it through his target’s heart, and the gurgling sound he made when he spit down his chin and there was blood. But he could remember feeling his grandfather’s torn, broken skin under his hands, still feel his desperation lanciating sharp edges in his heart. He remembered wanting to throw him into the Lazarus Pit, remembered feeling oddly at peace as his mother dragged him away by the wrist, like a petulant child.

* * *

The room fell into an uncomfortable hush. Abner left only a few minutes in to help investigate, pointing a stern finger at any kid who looked at him and leaving them with a “Stay. Here.” Chris moved his legs so Liv could sit down, while Bentley walked aimlessly around the room, almost pacing in small circles as they waited to hear from the police. Chief Maguire was yet to show, which meant he still had time to solve the case, but he just couldn’t seem to think. Liv had taken to running a hand through his combing, combing his tangles with her fingers, massaging him, and as lulling as it was, it was making it hard to think. Vase. Phone. Blood; the same clues circled his mind in tantalizing bubbles he couldn’t quite pop.

Fifteen minutes chimed by, and it still felt like twice that.

“Oi, Kid. Come take a look at this.” Bentley was standing by the archway, looking oddly focused on the plant that shrouded the side window. Chris untangled himself from Liv’s lingering touch, giving her hand a small squeeze to let her know the affection was still appreciated.

“What is it?”

“Look.” Bentley gestured vaguely to the plant, to which Chris cocked an eyebrow. “Not at the plant, dingus, the floor beneath it.” Oh. He bent over and found, to his surprise, there was paint chipped off of the planter, and it tracked across the floor, leaving skid marks from where it had been before. Evidence the plant had been moved-- specifically to be in front of the window. If that was the case, then--! His eyes widened, and he glanced to the looming wooden cabinets, the ones Isabel had such a difficult time opening and closing earlier. That meant that there was only one possible culprit. But then what did Gallo’s dying message mean? _Unless_ …

Bentley snorted, but it came out as a laugh. “Hey, you’ve got that look in your eye that says you’ve solved the case.”

Chris, never one for modesty, responded with a toothy smirk. “That’s because I have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I've left enough hints for everyone to figure out the how, why, and who! I'd love to hear your guesses if you've got any!
> 
> STOP: Before you read the final chapter, I'd love to hear your theories about Who Dun' It! The best part of writing a murder mystery is to see who gets it right <3
> 
> Image Source: https://www.vangoghgallery.com/painting/floral.html


	3. Part III

“Why does it always seem to be you, Tathum?”

Abner rubbed at the back of his neck, laughing with all the humor of a comedian laughed off the stage. “Just unlucky, I guess.”

“If I hadn’t known you for twenty years, I’d have thought you were the culprit by now.” Chief Maguire’s eyes narrowed from under the brim of his bowler cap. That was only half truth, of course. Sure, it was suspicious that Abner somehow popped up at every murder scene in a 50-mile-radius of his agency, but he’d also established a perfect score card. No murder had gone unsolved in his presence, and for that, he’d give his old friend the benefit of the doubt. “So, we have three suspects, right? Miss Alfarsi, Mister Al-Mufti, and Alfarsi’s assistant Isabel.”

“Ah, actually, Isabel was with us the whole time, and Miss Alfarsi was in her office right next door to us. The archway is totally open, so we woulda seen her heading to Gallo’s office if she had. I can’t vouch for Al-Mufti, though.”

“Actually, you can’t vouch for Miss Alfarsi, either.”

Maguire took a deep breath, then sighed, because of course Tathum’s kids were here, too. He’d even adopted an extra stray, from the looks of it, a tall, tan, green-eyed teenager with a baseball cap and a smug little grin. Chris, who approached by this stranger’s side, could have easily been his biological sibling-- which, how nice, could potentially mean they’d found the damn brat’s family. Abner turned and hissed, like Maguire was old enough to be a slave to age and couldn’t hear him. “I told you kids to stay put!”

Both kids ignored him. The teenager nodded to Gallo’s office, taped off and filled with forensic specialists. “We know who murdered Erwin Gallo.”

* * *

“Why exactly am I here?” Alfarsi’s manicured nails tapped at her ill-fitted suit arm, red lips pursed. Al-Mufti stood across from her, eyeing not the handful of detectives surrounding them, but the outline of Gallo’s body, white tape a mere echo of the bloody scene he’d found at his office door. “I have an alibi. He’s the one with no witnesses!”

“Actually, Miss Alfarsi,” Bentley scratched at his cheek. “We didn’t exactly see you in your office.”

“That’s ridiculous! Ask Isabel, I was there!”

Isabel, who was standing by the door, looking queasy and pale, startled. “Y-Yes, Miss Alfarsi is always in her office at 4:30!”

“We didn’t say she wasn’t in her office.” All heads turned to Chris, who was nearly drowned in the sea of taller bodies crowding the room. But he stood beside Bentley with his hands in his pockets. “We said that there was no proof she stayed there.”

“That’s ridiculous! I--!”

“Miss Alfarsi.” Maguire cleared his throat, a warning, of course, that settled her, despite the insult still seething under her skin. Instead she pulled out Erwin’s office chair with the most grating noise possible, then plopped down. “Okay, kid. What have you got?” Abner made an indignant noise, but said nothing, instead leaning against the doorway with a skeptical quirk in his lips.

Chris and Bentley exchanged a look. Bentley nodded, so Chris took the floor. “It’s true that your office is right next door to the guest room, and that the only way to get to Erwin’s office from yours is to pass by the open archway, and the window to its side. It might not be clear glass, but we still would have noticed the outline of a person passing by from where we were sitting.” Bentley reached for his phone. “Unless there was, say, a plant in front of the window!” Bentley showed the room the pictures he’d snapped on his phone, of the chipped paint on the floor, and the skid marks from where the plant had been to where it was moved.

Alfarsi scoffed, while Maguire hummed. “But there’s still the issue of the open archway.”

“We were gettin’ t’ that.” Alfarsi turned her attention to Bentley, who was busy swiping through pictures on his phone. “So, Miss Alfarsi. Why exactly did ya wanna help Chrissy here find his family?”

“Isn’t that obvious? Look at him!” Chris resented both of those comments. “I thought the story in the newspaper was heartwarming, and I thought I had the resources to help this poor little orphan boy!”  _ Poor little orphan boy? Woman, you have no idea… _ Chris’s eye twitched.

“No, that wasn't it at all!” Al-Mufti pointed an accusing finger at her. “Everything you do is for your goddamn museum! You were hoping you’d gain publicity, weren’t you!”

“All right, all right! Maybe I was! What’s your point?”

Chris clicked his tongue. “Actually, that wasn’t the reason at all, at least, not the whole reason.” Innocently, as much as he could muster without dying inside, he turned to Isabel. “Hey, that cabinet in front of the door is really, really big, right? You had trouble opening it, didn’t you, Miss?”

Isabel blinked, then frowned as she tapped a thoughtful finger at her chin. “Ah, yes. The cabinet doors are already so big, they’re heavy as is. But the cabinet itself is much too big for the guest room, and the carpet made it much harder to pull open.”

“Hey, hey, don’t you think it would be big enough to  _ cover the archway _ ?” If the silence of the room made it thick with tension before, it’d cracked just then. He grinned, the kind of grin that just came with the territory of being Damian Al Ghul, the kind that creeped Jon and Drake out. He turned it on Alfarsi, who was wide in the eyes, manicured nails now digging into her arms. “You texted Isabel and told her to pull the wrong file on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Th-That’s ridiculous! I just made a mistake!”

“A mistake that Gallo himself corrected when he texted Isabel roughly 20 minutes later. But then again, that wasn’t really Gallo, was it? Because he was already dead by then.” Bentley nodded to the white outline on the floor. “The front of Gallo’s body was covered in blood, because the culprit stabbed the very center of his throat. Oddly enough, though, there was still blood on his left shoulder, a sign that his body had been flipped over to reach the phone that was in his jacket’s pocket. Odder still, the phone itself was completely clear of blood despite the entire suit being soaked.”

Abner audibly gasped, and it was honestly a little embarrassing. “The culprit texted Isabel from Gallo’s phone, then wiped it clear because their fingerprints would be on it!” Chris rubbed the bridge of his nose.  _ Yes, that is the point we were trying to make, thank you _ .

Bentley nodded. “Right, and what other purpose would the culprit have to get Isabel to open the cabinet again… than to get back to Miss Alfarsi’s office?”

“You’re lying!” Alfarsi shot out of her chair. Maguire and Abner set their hands at their sides, at their guns. “Why would I kill my own partner? He was the best thing that ever happened to this place! We built this museum together! He was my best friend!”

“Because he was going to give the vase to Mister Al-Mufti, and you knew it.”

“Kid, wait!” Chris ignored the panicked voices and hands of Maguire and Abner, even Al-Mufti, as he waltzed by Alfarsi’s dangerously defensive stance. He wasn’t too concerned. The woman could hardly move properly with how tight that suit was. He grabbed the vase, once again despite the indignant cries of the adults, and glanced inside.

“Hey, Mister Al-Mufti, what’s the name of your client?”

“U-Uh, Abdellatif Al-Hashim?”

“Right. The name that’s been signed on the inside of this vase.” Bentley triggered the flashlight on his phone and Chris gave the detectives a closer look inside. “Alfarsi, you and Mister Al-Mufti put Gallo to the task of proving or disproving the client’s claims over this vase. Gallo came to the conclusion that the vase belonged to the Al-Hashim family, and scheduled a meeting with Al-Mufti for 5:00, isn’t that right?” He glanced to Abdul, who stiffly nodded and glanced away.

Bentley nodded sympathetically and put a hand on his shoulder. “My friend, Miss Alfarsi just tried t’ frame ya for murder.”

“As compelling as this theory is, kids, you still don’t have proof.” Alfarsi sighed in relief as Maguire waved a dismissive hand. “We can’t just put her away because she  _ could have _ done it and had a motive. This is a circumstantial case at best.”

“Except Erwin Gallo himself told us Miss Alfarsi killed him.” Bentley grinned, wide and cocky. “With his dying message.”

Abner raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? We knew his dying message was in arabic, but…”

“Well, at first we thought it spelled out Qadi, a reference to a muslim judge, so I’ve been told.” Bentley glanced over at Chris and shot him a conspiratorial wink.  _ You are officially the most annoying person I know _ . “But the kid has some other theories… like the culprit rewriting the message.”

Chris gestured to the writing on the ground, at this point dried and crusty-- قادي. “That last letter, there’s a letter in the arabic alphabet that looks very similar, in which case this word would actually read out as a name.” He reached for his phone and opened up the notepad, then drew out فادي. He showed it to the room for everyone to see. Alfarsi bit down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. “Which would be pronounced  _ Fadi _ , and wouldn’t you know what the feminine form of that is?” He grinned. “Fadia.”

She charged forward, hands outstretched to wring him by the neck. Chris crouched into a defensive position, debating whether a flip over her shoulders or a kick to the abdomen would be more debilitating for her. But there was a hand on her wrist too fast. She twisted to face Bentley, but he pulled her wrist outward and thrusted his palm upwards, connecting with her chin and sending her flying to the floor with a grunt and a scream. Chris watched on, eyes wide, before he turned to Bentley with a frown (it was not a pout-- Damian never pouted, that was a child’s expression and he was not a child). “I could have done that myself, you know.”

Bentley’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “I’m sure.”

* * *

“Chris!”

“A-Ah, Liv!” He squeaked as she flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I was so worried about you! Dad said you and Bentley solved the case, but--!”

“There was nothin’ to worry about, Liv.” Bentley cracked his knuckles and winked. “I took her down before she laid a hand on him.” Chris scowled. He’d remind Bentley later that he had not needed saving, that he would have been perfectly capable of disarming Miss Alfarsi himself. “Actually, ya know karate, too, don’t ya?”

“Ah, yes, you too?”

“Well actually, I know Xinyi Liuhe Quan! My Uncle Eliot owns a dojo over in the UK. Grandpa Gen Fu taught him when he was my age, so I guess it runs in the family, now.”

“Wow, so cool!”

Chris rolled his eyes. Nowhere near as  _ cool _ as being taught by the League of Assassins as the crowned prince or the freaking Batman himself, but whatever. It wasn't like he was planning on telling her anyway. “I’m sorry we lied to you, Liv.”

She sighed and pulled him into her, ruffling his hair as his chin rested against her stomach. She smiled down at him. “I’m more upset I didn’t get the soda I asked for, since you two had no intention of finding a vending machine, anyway~!” Bentley laughed nervously.

“I’ll get ya one on the way home. Least I could do.”

“Don’t worry about it. I think Dad wants to stop at a burger joint on the way home, anyway.”

“If that’s the case,” To Chris’s surprise, Bentley locked an arm over his shoulders, tugging him into him and shooting Liv a big smile. “Then I wanna walk around with the kid for a bit! Nothing wrecks the nerves quite like getting attacked, ya know, and I wouldn’t want the poor kid to not eat because he’s got a bad stomach!”

“O-Oi! I-I’m just fine--! Mmm!” Bentley’s arm shifted to cover his mouth, effectively muffling him.

Liv smiled and nodded in the direction of the police cars and the congested parking lot they’d rode in on. One pulled out of its spot, headlights blinking to let the other officers know to move out of the way. Alfarsi sat cuffed in the back seat, sobbing and screaming; the driving officer rolled his eyes and he completed his three-point turn and drove away. “Right, I’ll go make Dad settle on a place, then. There are, like, twenty burger places to stop at, and I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not a fan of the fries at McDonald’s!” She jogged away, and Chris struggled to get the arm tucked around his mouth to loosen so he could remind her that he was vegetarian, but she was gone too soon.

“All right, Kid.” Bentley smiled down at him, and it made his veins pop. “Let’s talk.”

* * *

The museum felt different than it had earlier. There was no cheery-faced Isabel to show them around, no Abner to try and hit on Isabel, and no Liv to herd Chris back to the group when he went off on his own to look at cool ancient scottish axes. The sun was going down, and from the windows above, it casted a bittersweet glow over what would soon likely be only memory. If there was no offer on the museum, it was likely each exhibit would find another home, or be auctioned off, and the doors of this place would close forever. It was a shame, truly. Such a good thing, a dwelling for history itself to once more see the light of day, for the bones of those long gone to live on and serve a purpose, all to burn in the blaze of barbaric gratification. He thought Pennyworth might weep, if he’d known. “So, ya know arabic, huh?”

“What’s it matter to you? You saw my bloodwork results, did you not?”

“Just because you’ve got arabic blood doesn’t mean ya know arabic, ya brat. My ma’ is Japanese and I only know a few words here an’ there.”

Chris bit back the reply that it made him a disappointing derelict, not knowing the language of his heritage. If this was about what he thought it was, irritating Bentley would get him nowhere. He stopped short mid-step, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I don’t see what the point of this is. You wanted to talk, didn’t you? So talk.”

Bentley took a few more steps, to the end of the Fallen Warrior display, then stopped and turned to face him. There was a contemplative look on his face, but he was choosing his words carefully-- he already knew what to think. “I heard from a good friend o’ mine that her uncle’s been lookin’ into some missin’ children’s cases. One caught his attention, ya know, ‘cause it’s so high-profile. Apparently Bruce Wayne’s been missin’ his youngest.” Chris bit down on his tongue so hard he was surprised it hadn’t bled. “No trace of him for six months. Kinda odd, considerin’ ya think most people would recognize a Wayne if they saw one. ‘Less he ended up somewhere the Waynes weren’t as recognizable by face, a small city, ya know?” Bentley chuckled. “Funny, I heard that his ma was arabic, too. It’s why nobody knew ‘bout him for ten years.”

The sun shifted, and the light that sheltered the artifacts and days of old fell to the darkness of the night. The bittersweet brilliance turned to white-knuckled darkness. His hands balled into fists in his pockets. They stood silent, unmoving, watching each other. The air grew thick and overwrought, but it was like ice in the way that a single move could splinter the tension like glass.

Bentley’s eyes narrowed. “But I don’t need t’ tell ya all that, do I, Damian?”

Chris sighed. “I can’t go back, Stück.”

“Why not?”

For a number of reasons. His father wouldn’t want him back, nor would any of his father’s wards, his  _ chosen children _ , the ones he actually wanted. Drake hated him, Todd didn’t care, Grayson probably hated him  _ more _ than Drake, and though he knew those things, it still hurt when he was forced to acknowledge it again and again. Batman and every one of his Robins thought he was a monster, and he just wanted to forget that part of him. Jon-- god, Jon was probably doing better without him there, and he missed him so, so horribly, and he’d never, ever say that out loud, but it was true. Jon was good, and sunny, and he’d grow to be something amazing someday, and he’d get to find a girl and fall in love and-- and he forced that idea down because it hurt. And then there was Chris Tathum’s life, the normal childhood he got to live, the kids, his friends. Liv. He didn’t want to be Damian Wayne, or Damian Al Ghul, he wanted to be Chris and he wanted to stay in Liv’s arms where he, for once in his spiritless life, could feel whole.

“I’m being followed.” It was a truth, for the most part. He wasn’t sure if whoever was following him was dangerous, and he was sure that his father would be more than capable of handling whatever it was if it followed him back to Gotham, but it was an excuse. For all he knew, it was the Tathum family the mysterious stalker was following, and it only made sense that he stuck around to protect them.”I don’t want my father to get involved. It’s  _ my _ case. As the son of a detective, I’m sure you can understand that.”

Bentley hummed, tilting his cap upwards. He stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, and the stars that had begun to shower over the windows above. He seemed to be mulling it over, deciding if he wanted to believe him, or maybe what he was going to do because he did. After a moment, he nodded, and from his back pocket, he produced a folded three-page stack of papers.

“Those are--!”

His real bloodwork results, the ones found in File #1. Bentley nodded and produced a match from his other pocket, lighting the stack in one corner. They watched, Chris with shock, Bentley with indifference, as the embers devoured the papers and the colorful charts, seeping up and up and leaving dust and cinders that hailed to the floor, at Bentley’s feet. He dropped the last bit as the flames ate to the corner he held, and it flitted to the ground where he stomped out the fire with his heel. “Wh...why?”

“Whattaya mean, why? Woulda been bad if your Pa got a hold’a those, neh?” Bentley grinned at him, cheeky, smug, green eyes as alight in mirth as the lighter still burning in his hand. He could see the reflection of the flames swaying in the pools of his clover eyes. He drowned the fire with its top, then stuck it back in his pocket. “You said you’re on a case. I believe you. But…” Chris swallowed, and Bentley’s eyes flickered in the direction of the parking lot, where Liv and her father still were. “...Once you close it, you’re gonna tell them. Or I will.”

Agreeing would damn him, but so would refusal. He hadn’t actually planned on looking into it, not unless this mysterious figure made a move, but he’d be stuck to it, and he had to, or Bentley would run and tell everyone who he really was. But if he did solve the case, which he was sure he could, with ease, then he’d have to bend and tell them everything anyway, or Bentley, again, would. There was a chance, a small chance, that he could convince Liv and her father to keep him around, but more likely than not, a man of the law like Abner would end him home. Maybe, if he agreed to Bentley’s conditions, it would buy him time-- time to solidify his place in the Tathum household, time to make his life more Chris than Damian.

He nodded. “You’ve got a deal.”

* * *

“You know Metas aren’t allowed in Gotham, Superboy.”

“Then you can escort me out yourself.” Batman turned in his seat at the bat computer, raising an eyebrow underneath his cowl. Superboy approached from the staircase that led up to Wayne Manor, blue eyes usually so bright and full of heroism, now dark, narrowed, dangerous. He stalked towards him with his shoulders back, fists squared and ready to fight at his sides. Batman would have been concerned if Alfred wasn’t standing at the top of the stairs, smiling fondly down at him.

“I want onto Damian’s case.”

“You what?”

“I want to help you find him.” Jon prodded at his own chest with his thumb. “I know Damian better than anybody! If anyone is going to find him, it’s me!”

Well, this was unexpected. Batman clasped his hands in his lap. “All right.”

“You  _ know _ I’m his best friend, and I will never, never stop trying to-- wait, did you just say okay?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

He couldn’t help it. The corner of his lips curved upward. “You’re right. If anybody is going to find Damian, it’s you. You know his heartbeat, his moves, and you’d be better than any of us at predicting what he’d do next. And you’re right, aside from any of us, you’re the one person who would never stop looking for Damian.”

“So…” Superboy swallowed, cheeks turning an apple’s shade of red. “I’m on the case?”

“You’re on the case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how did everyone like the first murder mystery in the Origami Birds series? :D I think I like writing mystery more than I thought I would. I'm probably going to go back and make sure this story is more polished, later, but I'm an impatient bitch and I wanted to get this up now xD Reviews and constructive criticism are not only open, but appreciated <3

**Author's Note:**

> Before anybody goes off on me, I don't know arabic, but I figured: what better way to showcase Damian's heritage than have it help him solve a case? :D


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